


sleep apraxia (the land, sea and sky remix)

by kristin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-30
Updated: 2011-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:44:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristin/pseuds/kristin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“This is just so-” John paused, quite obviously searching for the right adjective. Interesting. His face was, almost impossibly, more open this way. Expressions exaggerated rather than drug dull. Atypical. (Must keep that in mind for assessing other reactions.) “Sherlock.”</i></p><p>Three times Sherlock slept in a moving vehicle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sleep apraxia (the land, sea and sky remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sarah T (SarahT)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahT/gifts).
  * Inspired by [recreational aphasia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/139697) by [Sarah T (SarahT)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahT/pseuds/Sarah%20T). 



  
**.taxi.**   


“221 Baker Street,” said John, his voice low, almost a mumble, as he crawled across the seat. Sherlock slid in after, letting his weight drop against the seat. (Sharp scent of cleaner, but the tinge of vomit is barely present. Cabbie cares about the condition of his car. Oldest child, based on the pictures. Young for this job. Not smart, but a hard worker. Safe enough driver.)

Sherlock ran his hand across the window, feeling the chill of the early morning condensation through his glove. Beside him he felt the warmth of John’s presence and beneath the rocking of the suspension.

He was done, no more case to press against his brain and evidence to sift though. God, he is tired. The car is being passed by a red van. (Driven by a woman, possibly barrister, possibly banker. Couldn’t observe long enough to be sure.)

Wait, what was that? Sherlock jolted his head up.

Only John shifting, setting the seat fabric squawking. It harmonized with the drone of the early morning traffic. (Harmonized, adj. involving or characterized by harmony synonyms: sympathetic, accordant, consonant, agreeable, concordant, conformable.)

Wait. Concordant. He rolled the word around in his mouth, try to decipher the meaning in the syllable. Of course, Sherlock knows why that is important, “Three across.”

The killer had left messages in the crossword. This would fill in another blank, letters slotting in place before his eyes. “Three across.” This means, means-

“It’s over, Sherlock, we’re done.” John’s voice cut through his thoughts, slicing through to the present as he reached a hand out to Sherlock’s cheek, grounding him there.

(Gun callous, strong fingers. Military. Scent of tallow and ink from the case. John.) Sherlock nudged his face more firmly against it, eyes closed, memorizing the weight of it.

Sherlock was falling. (Wrong. Had not fallen, had been guided.) He was now propped up against John, close and warm.

Fact, John had in fact initiated this contact and it was far more comfortable than the seat. Fact, Sherlock had been awake for 97.3 hours. Fact, the case was solved. Conclusion, it was safe to sleep.

Sherlock mumbled out his conclusions to John, who appeared not to be paying attention, or perhaps Sherlock wasn’t talking just thinking. Everything was sleep muddled and dull dull dull. Better to sleep than just sit there bored.

Sherlock vaguely registered movement, pressure on his forehead, as he sliped into sleep.

 

  
**.boat.**   


“You were wrong,” said John.

A little too much glee in that tone, in Sherlock’s opinion. Sherlock tsked, pushing air through his teeth in a huff. “No need to state the obvious.”

It really wasn’t. Obviously he had been wrong or they wouldn’t be here. Bad form to bring it up, John must be feeling nerves. No, more likely just trying to assess the situation in his own little way.

And what a situation it was. Sherlock peered up of the ceiling (metal, sturdy, no obvious flaws to exploit) before slouching down to examine the floor (same as the ceiling, damn, why couldn’t there be anything _interesting_ about this container).

Damn it all. Nothing for it then.

“Not only were you wrong, you’re --”

Admitting it. Sherlock supplied when John stopped. Why did he stop? Oh yes, he was looking over here. Really, John could be so easily distracted sometimes.

“Why, exactly, are you taking off your coat?”

Sherlock finished pulling it off with a flourish, now that he knew John was watching. Melodramatic, yes, but what other amusement could there to be found here. Sherlock laid the coat out on the ground as he said, “The metal floor here is far from comfortable for sleeping.”

“Yes, but-”

“Obviously we are trapped in this shipping container until the ship docks. No easy way out, not without a co-conspirator on the outside which we don’t have until we’ve crossed the channel. While there is little chance that someone will hear the echoes of our voices, it is still better not to risk speaking too much,” said Sherlock as he laid down.

John was raising an eyebrow at him. (84.5 percent chance this was a silent commentary on the fact that Sherlock was speaking about the dangers of speaking. No use responding, would only encourage him.) Besides, John had already come closer and was peering down at Sherlock.  
While this was an improvement on his previous position, it was still not right, yet. Sherlock reached up and hand and tugged John down next to him.

Sherlock required a pillow, and John’s chest would do nicely. He arranged them to his liking, then continued.

“Thanks to my,” Sherlock paused, turning his head into the fabric of John’s jumper for the next word, “mistake, we already know who the culprit is. However, we cannot take any action against him until we get out of here.

“Our options, then, are to sit around, bored, waiting for the forgone conclusion of this case, or we could sleep now, perfectly safe.”

“Safe?” asks John. Sherlock could feel the vibrations of the words, of John’s heart.

“Yes, safe,” he said, then slept.

 

  
**.plane.**   


“You drugged me.”

“I did,” admitted Sherlock. Obvious.

(John had been objecting to this trip since he had heard about it. However, he always spoke fondly of the Americans he had met and had shown interest in the guns. Could have been the time away from London, but no, no steady employment or steady relationships. Therefore, must be upset about something else. Not the expense, thanks to Mycroft. No, something else then. The plane itself.

Once that was deducted, it was an easy decision to lace John’s coffee. Sherlock had no interest in seeing John stoically suffer throughout the flight. Boring.)

“This is just so-” John paused, quite obviously searching for the right adjective. Interesting. His face was, almost impossibly, more open this way. Expressions exaggerated rather than drug dull. Atypical. (Must keep that in mind for assessing other reactions.) “Sherlock.”

Not an adjective at all, then. One could be generous and overlook this mix-up, perhaps blaming it on the meds or some such. But that would be polite, kind. Altogether not very --oh.

“If you must persist on using my name as an adjective, I would prefer you conjugate it, at least.”

“If I must,” said John, the last word swallowed in a yawn. (5 minutes until he fell asleep. Less if he stopped struggling against it. Likelihood of that was low, though.)

Apparently Sherlock was wrong. He would have grimaced, but was too preoccupied by the sensation of John resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, the huff of air in and out of his lungs.

Sherlock had a stack of files for the case, research. (The killer was only targeting British-born citizens. Shoddy crime scene photos only so far. Need to compare with pre- and post-murder pictures of the sites to see what might have been missed.)

Instead, he tilted his own head down onto John’s, slept.


End file.
